Get Me Through Tonight
by cordano-carby
Summary: Short stand-alone- Abby angst. This one fills in the few hours between "No Strings Attached" and "A Boy Falling out of the Sky". Spoilers for "NSA". Please read and review!


Author's Note: Yet another standalone from Abby's POV- one of these days I'll actually write a fic that isn't a standalone. This one fills in the few hours between "No Strings Attached" and "A Boy Falling out of the Sky." Very angsty- you've been warned. Please read and review!  
  
***  
  
"Thank you, ma'am," the cashier says to me, handing me a bag. I give a small smile in return, just to be polite. I walk out of the supermarket and into the bitter February night.  
  
It is almost 3:00 in the morning, and I am standing on the street outside the supermarket, clutching a plastic bag. Inside the bag are a few things I need- toothpaste, orange juice, bread, and a bottle of tequila. I turn the corner and walk the few blocks to my apartment. Turning the key in the lock, I push open the door to my living room.  
  
It is a mess. I had come home and dumped all of my stuff on the couch, the floor, the table...whatever was closest at the time. My answering machine flashes periodically. 17 new messages. No one has called since I left.  
  
I put the grocery bag down on the kitchen table and pull out the bottle of whiskey. I set it down and stare at it for a few minutes.  
  
Eric's gone. His plane went down over some lake in Wisconsin, or something. I can't even remember now. All I know is that he's gone.  
  
And that this wasn't an accident.  
  
Eric came to me a few weeks ago. He seemed okay. And he had bought a plane.  
  
A plane. I should have seen it then. Why in the world would he sell almost everything he owned just to buy a plane?  
  
At least he came to say goodbye. To apologize. Eric might have gotten the chance to say goodbye to me, but I didn't even think to apologize for the things I've done wrong. For dumping Maggie on him when I didn't want to deal with her. For not protecting him like I should have when we were kids.  
  
For not being able to protect him from the disease that seems to have driven him to death.  
  
Now he's gone. Dead. He's never coming back. Now who's going to protect me? Who's going to help me with Maggie? Comfort me when things get so bad I don't think I can go on?  
  
Carter? Maybe. He's the one who comforted me when I found out that Eric was bipolar. He's dealt with Maggie before, and he doesn't seem to mind that much. He was there with me when Maggie lay in the ER, seizing, close to death.  
  
But he's not here now. And I told him not to come home. Just like I used to tell Eric not to come home when I needed him. But Eric always did. Eric knew just from the tone of my voice if I needed him.  
  
Nobody's here now. I can't even talk to Maggie, she's not answering the phone. Look at me. I'm so desperate for comforting that I willingly called my mother to talk about it.  
  
It's just me and the bottle of tequila.  
  
I get up and open a cabinet. I take out a glass and set it on the table next to the tequila bottle.  
  
I need to talk to someone. Anyone.  
  
Should I call Susan? She'd listen to me. Comfort me. Get me through the night.  
  
I pick up the phone, preparing to dial her number.  
  
But first, I glance up at the clock. It's 3:20 in the morning. I can't call her now. Sure, it's Susan, but 3:20 is just too late. So I place the phone back on the table.  
  
There's no one to talk to. No one's shoulder to cry on. Nothing can get me through tonight.  
  
No. There is one thing that can get me through the night.  
  
I open the bottle and pour out some tequila. I start to feel better with the first gulp of the liquid.  
  
Alcohol has always been the one thing that can take my pain away. I still don't know what it is about it that makes it work so well. Half the time I don't even like the taste. And I definitely don't like the hangovers. But whatever it is that's wrong seems to go away with the first sip of beer, or wine, or vodka, or whiskey.  
  
Or tequila.  
  
I finish the glass and pour myself another. This one goes down quicker than the first. It's amazing how little it takes to fall back into habit.  
  
But somehow, after the second glass, I manage to stop myself. Sure, the tequila is washing my anxiety away, but I can't do this to myself. I don't want to fall back into the bottomless pit that is alcoholism again. Because I know this is how it begins.  
  
I get up from the kitchen table, leaving the bottle open and the glass, with a drop of tequila still lingering at the bottom, sitting next to it.  
  
I can get to sleep without being completely drunk. I'm strong enough to do that, at least. 


End file.
